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Poem by Philip Sidney
Sonnet 59. Dear, Why Make You More
Dear, why make you more of a dog than me? If he do love, I burn, I burn in love; If he wait well, I never thence would move; If he be fair, yet but a dog can be. Little he is, so little worth is he; He barks, my songs thine own voice oft doth prove: Bidden perhaps he fetcheth thee a glove, But I unbid, fetch ev'n my soul to thee. Yet while I languish, him that bosom clips, That lap doth lap, nay lets in spite of spite This sour-breath'd mate taste of those sugar'd lips. Alas, if you grant only such delight To witless thngs, then Love I hope (since wit Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.
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